It was the best of times, it was the worst of times....

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; my childhood.

I grew up in a household of six children. Mom should have stopped at one. Dad could have had 15! Dad worked swing shift which meant there were days we wouldn’t see him either because of his work schedule or his sleep schedule. Mom was left to ‘raise’ us alone for the most part. A job she was NOT up for so when we got old enough or at least when one of us got old enough, she took off. She took off a lot. Yes, she did have bowling every Tuesday and TOPS every Thursday and once a month on Mondays she had card club (oh how VERY 60’s) but for the most part, she just took off! Can’t say as I can blame her for leaving when she could.

I was number four. My parents had three children, very close in age; took a six year break and then had three more children, very close in age. So my family had teens & toddlers. Something I myself experienced when I remarried at 29 but I only had one sullen teen and two toddlers. She had three teens & three toddlers. She also came from a long line of crazy women. It was really best when she was gone but that is for another time.

Six kids, alone, without adult supervision; yeah the neighbors have stories to tell! I remember Saturdays, before my sister got married. They were full of ‘Shock Theater’ (horror flicks, 60’s style) Big Time Wrestling and lots of black and white movies. They were also full of shenanigans of all sorts. David was the youngest. He was a pretty mellow kid with incredible strength. He is probably the closest in temperament to my father. That boy can STILL lay line of B.S. that would put Frank Abagnale to shame. I do remember the older three playing with camera effects. They were very good at trying to line up shots where it would look like Sharon was holding Michael in her hands. Our mother couldn’t really cook. She was nineteen when she got married. Her mother died shortly after that. My grandmother was very non-traditional in the grandmother sense. She never made cookies but she knew how to make a meal of squirrel, raccoon or another other life form. Her perch was out of this world but one learned to never question what you were eating at grandmas. If you couldn’t tell, it was best you didn’t know. Sharon tried her hand at cooking. Once she made biscuits SO hard, we ended up throwing them at the walls! She wasn’t the oldest but she was the oldest girl and she was born responsible. She had a lot of pressure put on her at a young age with our crew.

I was usually outside with the dogs or wandering in the back yard. The younger two were still in diapers.  One of my earlier recollections of one of our ‘Saturday events’ was when David got angry at Mark and threw a green toy Volkswagen Bug at him. It missed Mark but sailed through the closed living room window.

No one wanted to anger our mother so there was quick business going about getting it cleaned up. However, John, the oldest, cut his hand on the glass. My sister had a friend over, Nara, and Nara took off running to my sister, ‘Sharon, come quick, come quick!!” That led to an ER trip, several stiches and groundings. There was always stuff like that happening. The door to the sun porch from the living room was broke SO many times; my dad finally put plywood over the opening. I think at one time or another, all of us had a hand at breaking that glass. I was ‘playing’ with David one day. He did this thing called, Rhino Charge where he ran at you, full tilt, with his head down and butted you in the stomach. We weren’t fighting and he wasn’t coming full tilt but it was a Rhino Charge. He barely hit me but it was just enough that I was knocked off balance and I went through the glass door. My father was reading the paper. He put the paper down and said, “Shit.” He wasn’t mad at us, he was worried about her being angry.

Sharon got married in 1974, John did as well & Michael, well he got thrown out, allowed back in, thrown out again, allowed back in and eventually married. That left ‘the three little kids’ with me being the oldest.

I have NO idea if John, Sharon & Michael fought like Mark, David & I did but Holy Moly, we had some drag out fights!!

One fight in particular initially took place in the kitchen. For SOME reason, Mark decided to set up his record player in the kitchen. It was 1970’s fancy as you could tape directly to a cassette from a record! However, Mark didn’t understand the process and insisted on TOTAL silence while this was recording. Both parental units were gone and I had made pork chops and mac & cheese for dinner. Mark kept making angry faces at me if I clinked my fork on my plate or chewed too loud. Mark & I NEVER got along, from the beginning of time. He just always rubbed me the WRONG way. So, of course, his pain brought me pleasure. I started giggling at his frustration. Yes, that only made him madder. It was working both my nerves and David’s. What I didn’t know, was what David did. Mark and I were squabbling over his demands and my demands of WHY are you recording in the kitchen during dinner? Mark was never very reasonable. David took a piece of pork chop and dropped it in Mark’s milk. After our squabble, we sat down to eat. Sure enough, when Mark took a drink of milk, PLOP, right in the face with a soggy piece of milk sodden pork chop. Well of course I started laughing. Mark immediately accused me of doing it. We both launched from our chairs. I bolted for my room, a locking door! As I raced through the kitchen, Mark, realizing I was going to reach my room before he could reach me, grabbed the full jug of milk off the table and threw it at me, hitting me right in the middle of my back. Let me tell you that a gallon of milk, hitting you square in the back, hurts. It also explodes. I stopped for a moment. My reaction to getting hit in the back with a full gallon of milk sort of looked like I was doing a Captain Kirk impression when he was hit with some sort of unseen ray. I recovered and tore up the stairs with Mark hot on my heels. I barely rounded the corner and was about to clear my doorway when I felt Mark’s hand on my shoulder. But suddenly, he let go. David had tore behind Mark, no doubt riddled by the guilt that I took a gallon of milk to the back when HE was the one who dropped the pork chop into Mark’s glass. David had Mark on his back on the floor. Mark was red-faced and thrashing. David was trying to apologize and kept asking Mark to be still and ‘don’t make me hurt you;’ which is truly a line from our father. But Mark wouldn’t calm down. He was NO match for David’s strength and eventually David had to pop him one.

It was always Mark and I fighting with David trying to keep the peace. Once Mark threw a mustard container at me. It missed me and hit the wall, exploding. The thing is; we couldn’t tell where the mustard was. My mother had and has HORRID taste in home decorating. Most of my childhood was spent in a robin egg blue living room with nasty orange striped couches, in a bright mustard yellow kitchen that had chocolate brown appliances, red linoleum countertop and blonde cupboards, in an avocado green bathroom. My parent’s room was a nauseating lavender and I like purple. When the mustard bottle exploded we all stopped and stared at the walls. We literally could not see where the mustard landed unless we looked along the wall sideways. Well, that ended the fight because we were in fits of laugher as we all tried to clean the walls.

Once Mark and I got in a knock down drag out fight and since HIS bedroom door didn’t have locks, he ran to the bathroom. Well, there is NO escape from our bathroom as it has no window so I decided I would wait him out. I held onto the knob so he couldn’t get out! I was patient. Eventually, he panicked when he realized he was trapped. He was thrashing about, pounding on the door, screaming and yelling, which only made me hold on tighter and with such a sneer of satisfaction. Suddenly, something shot by my head. Mark had hacked at the door with the dust mop shoving the end of it through the door. I let go and took off out the front door. Mark was in hot pursuit, mop in hand. We were running down the middle of our road. I would REALLY love to hear the neighbors version so the stupid Sermon kids.

Dad fixed the door by covering the hole with a large diamond shape. He thought that would please our mother and let the whole thing blow over. HOWEVER, we repeated our same argument a few weeks later and this time, Mark hacked through the door with a toothbrush and not in the center of the door. Since he had to replace the whole door this time, Dad was a bit angry. Groundings were had by all.

My father never hit us, never. He would rarely be angry with us. He was always, “So, what did you do this time to piss your mom off?” “Don’t make me have to give you a what for.” He was a great dad. I only saw him angry a few times in my life.

He had been working midnights and was sleeping. It was Sunday morning and all six of us were still living at home. Sunday mornings sucked at our house. She was always yelling at us to get moving, hurry up and get dressed. My mom never learned the skill of laying out our clothes the night before. We always spent Sunday morning trying to locate everyone’s shoes. Now, six children had a LOT of shoes. They were all tossed in the front hall closet, with NO organization. ALL of our shoes, our tennis shoes, our dress shoes, our snow boots, ALL of our shoes. Well this particular morning, Mom could not get the stupid closet door open. That set her off on one of her Sunday morning warpaths. She was making some serious noise. Then we heard it, we all heard it; the thudding sound from upstairs of a 6’3”, 225lb man, getting out of bed and stomping down the hall. He came down and demanded to know what the problem was. My mother, still very hysterical about the door, explained herself in an expressive high velocity manner. My father looked at her and looked at the closet. He said, “This door, THIS door right here. THIS is the door you cannot open.” And with that he PUNCHED his massive fist through the closet door, grabbed it with his hand and pulled it open. “THERE, NOW It’s OPEN!” and then he went back upstairs. NO ONE said a word, nothing. We all got our shoes in stunned silence. We drove to church in stunned silence. We sat in church in stunned silence...until we got the giggles. Mom glared from the choir loft. Yeah, did I mention she sang in the church choir? Six children who couldn’t handle being home alone, sat in a church pew without a grown up. Again, I’d LOVE to hear the stories of those who witnessed our behavior. 

Dreamy

I had a dream the other night. It was one of those dreams that felt so real. One of those dreams you think about for days and wonder if it was a dream, a memory or a premonition?

In this dream, I was out of town, visiting a friend. I don’t recall the travelling to get there or meeting up. We were in a grand old cemetery. It was lush and green. There were many roads and rolling hills. There were several large statues and lovely moss covered mausoleums.  It was a beautiful day, warm, full of sunshine, trees blooming, a lovely late spring day. I think we have had our bikes. We were making small talk and sharing comments about the various stones while we were both taking photos. Then I noticed her.

An older woman was on her knees near a grave. I couldn’t see her face. She was kneeling at the grave, dressed in dark traditional mourning clothes.  She was crying, rocking back and forth on her knees, occasionally pulling at the grass. We both froze. I had often imagined conversations with someone visiting a loved one when I am ‘trespassing’ taking photographs and taking in the weather. I had always imagined I would talk to them. So I walked over to her.

I lightly touched her shoulder and quietly said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

Without looking up, she put her hand on my hand and sobbed loudly. “He’s gone. I’m alone. I miss him so much.” Then she shouted, “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You shouldn’t have left me.”  I joined her on the grass, sitting very close to her. She leaned into me, a total stranger, so desperate for comfort. I glanced at the stone, the date was recent. I looked down at the ground around us and realized the grass had been patched in. I couldn’t see her face. She was wearing a hat with a veil over her face. I could see she had shoulder length hair, softly curled under at the shoulder. Her hair was colored to a honey tone but the silver streaks were still quite visible.

I quietly asked her what her name was. It was Mary Louise. I told her my name was Diane Louise. She smiled, weakly. I asked her. “Is this your husband?” “Yes,” she said, she sat up a little straighter when she said, “57 years, for 57 years, I was his wife.” I asked her if he called her Louise. She looked straight at me. I saw how red her eyes were from the crying. Her pain was so raw. “How did you know that?” I smiled, “My brother-in-law has called me Louise since I was a young girl. Just a pet name he gave me.” She said, “Sometimes he just called me Weezie.”  She smiled, touched the gravestone and I saw the tears start down her face again. She whispered, “He’s gone, forever.”

I asked her to tell me about him. Without hesitation she started listing random facts about him. I slipped my blue notebook out of my bag and started writing down everything she was saying. “He was always whistling and if he wasn’t whistling he was singing.” She smiled. “He used to sing all the time, not entire songs, just choruses or lines from a song. They always made me laugh.” She smiled, “Sometimes he would change the lyrics to something, um, inappropriate, but only when we were at home or alone in the car.” She touched her fingers to her lips and laughed a small laugh, for only a moment, as the memory washed over her. She went on to tell me that he worked in a plant for 40 years, never missing a day of work for being sick or because of bad weather but he was by her side for each one of their children’s birth. She told me what a wonderful dad he was. He built the children a tree fort, made their lemonade stand, saw all their school plays and helped them with science projects. She kept talking and I kept filling up my pages. She told me that she had been a young bride and so was very frightened when he went to fight the War. He was missing for a few months, but they located him with a few members of his platoon, on an island. He never spoke much about what happened to him there. He loved to dance. “And he was a real good dancer. All the girls wanted to be his partner but I got him!” She smiled again. I have no idea how long we were there but the stories of her husband just poured out of her. She had stopped crying a while ago. Finally she looked at me and asked me, “What are you writing in your book?” I told her, I was writing everything she said because now Thomas would be a memory for me too.

I asked her if her children lived nearby and if she had any grandchildren. She nodded. I put my hand on her arm again, “You need to tell them all these stories about Thomas. You can keep him alive and remember him by telling his stories over and over.” She nodded again. I could tell she was exhausted. I didn’t see a car. “How did you get her Louise?” “Oh,” she said, “I took the bus a few days ago.” My heart ached for her. “Louise, is there anyone I can call for you?” She took a breath, nodded, and said, “I think my daughter might be wondering where I am.” I called her daughter and found out that Louise had been missing for three days. Thomas had only died a week earlier. As we waited for her daughter, I asked her if I could take her picture. She started fussing with her hair, “Oh, I must be a fright.” I told her I thought she was beautiful and I wanted to remember her. My friend, who had stayed just off from us, but within earshot, came over and asked to take a picture of both of us. I put my arm around her and she took my other hand in hers, leaning her head on mine.

The minivan finally pulled up. Her daughter rushed up to us, grabbed her mother in a hug and held her tight. “Mom, you scared us to death! Please don’t do that again, promise me, please, I can’t lose you too.” Louise introduced us and her daughter gave me the same hug she gave her mom and thanked me for calling. I helped her get Louise to the car. I leaned into the open window and hugged her again. “Are you going to be alright now?” She nodded, “I think so.” I held up my blue notebook, “As long as you share him, he will live on. He’s a part of my life now and so are you.” She kissed my hand and put it up to her cheek.” Soon the car was out of sight. 

I turned to my friend. “Wow” he said, “Just wow!” He told me that he had taken a few photographs of us while Louise and I sat talking together. He and I sat down by a large oak tree and he handed me the camera so we could both flip through the images. She looked so sweet but frail in the first few photos but the more she talked about Thomas, the more her color seemed to return, she even looked stronger.  I paused for a moment and looked up. My friend asked, “What, what is it?” “Oh, nothing” I said. 

It was obvious he couldn't hear it and I couldn't tell him but I was sure I could hear someone whistling. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onH-WTVQGsg&list=AL94UKMTqg-9B23vsJpbYCct5FRDXj7iNk&feature=c4-overview-vl

Curly Toed Shoes June 12th 2013

I'm sitting in a waiting room again. He has to get a PET Scan to see if there are tumors anywhere else in his body. Last week’s CT of his abdomen showed a spot on his kidney. Monday will mean an Ultrasound to get a closer look. I thought the first time I would be in a waiting room for an ultrasound would be with Elissa, waiting on the news of a grandchild.

The diagnosis has been changed from Stage IV Sarcoma to a Desmoid Fibromitosis Tumor.  His samples and scans were sent to Mayo Clinic, because of the size of the tumor and his age. It was Mayo Clinic that made the final diagnosis of a Desmoid. What in the hell is a Desmoid? Well, it’s rare, very rare. I don't blame the doctors in Saginaw for not knowing, for calling it Stage IV Sarcoma. Desmoids happen to four people in a million. Some websites call it Cancer, others say it is not. It is an aggressive tumor, often called the Angry Tumor. While not malignant on a cellular level, like Cancer, these tumors are very invasive and can cause death. This is better news. It is not Stage IV Sarcoma but this is hardly good news. Our life with ‘The Monster’ has just begun.

We are in a makeshift office, a trailer, outside one of Covenant’s Clinics. Nate says it before I do that it feels like he is there getting some illegal treatment instead of a scheduled PET Scan. They take him away, telling me it will be at least an hour. There is nothing but senior citizens in the waiting room. Nate is only 20. We shouldn't be here.

I became fascinated by an older couple speaking Greek. Speaking in English, he tries to explain to her what she is reading. Another older couple comes in. The wife tells a woman, a total stranger, that he has Stage IV liver Cancer. Two other women start talking about where they are at with their cancers. They go on and on about friends who have passed, who has it now….I cannot stomach their conversations. He is only 20.  I put my earbuds in, trying to escape their talk but my brain won't let me.

I text my friend, Kris, for a while, I start thinking about friends who have lost children, young children, to horrid obscure illnesses. I don't know if I can be like them, holding fund raisers for awareness, printing off Team Nathan t-shirts. I don't know what my role is here. I get up to use the bathroom and I see Nathan in another room. He has to wait for the dye to work into his system. I am so proud of how he is talking to the technicians. He speaks clearly, like an adult, and asks all the right questions. Back at my seat, I think about how he has grown.

He used to get so nervous and excited to do things with his friends that he threw up, even in high school. Nervousness runs on his dad’s side of the family. I used to push him, maybe harder than I should have, about being stronger. I would tell him that he could outsmart those butterflies and push through it. Not being a nervous person myself, I really couldn't understand his behavior. I didn't mock him but kept telling him how strong he really was.

I couldn't help but think back to my father’s funeral. I was abnormally high-strung and understandably upset hat day. Normally the tough as nails one in the family, I was shaking.  My eyes darted about the room. I really couldn't settle myself down. I had spent the day before at the funeral home for the visitation. I didn't do well there either. I wasn't being a grown up. I was being a little girl who lost her dad. I spent a lot of time sitting on the steps on the back porch of the funeral home.

I wasn't doing the grown up thing. Hours of telling people thank you for coming and making idle small talk was tiring to say the least. The funeral was being held at the church of my childhood. Standing in the back I could remember all the times I sat by my dad singing hymns. I can remember lighting candles with him on Christmas Eve and I remember him walking me down this very aisle. I’m not ready for this day.

The pastor comes over and tells us it’s time. It’s time to say goodbye so they can close the casket and start the funeral. My knees buckle and it starts. I’m not ready and start crying. My friend Cheryle, bless her soul, was watching me like a hawk. Before she can reach me, Nathan has his arms around me. Suddenly I am the child and he is the adult. 

I'm sobbing by now, uncontrollably. I can not stop. I'm sobbing as I hug my sister saying I don't want to say goodbye, not yet. I'm sobbing when I go to his casket and touch him for the last time. I'm sobbing while they are leading the prayer in the hallway, before we take the walk to the front of the church. I’m trying to compose myself during the prayer. I have my eyes opened but my head down. Nate is by my side with his arm around me. I look at his shoes. Good Lord, he wore his ratty old leather shoes and they were dirty. I look up at him, he gives me such a tender look and I say through sobs, “Your…shoes…are..dirty.” He looks at me, shocked, and whispers, “Really Mom, really, you want to go there with my shoes, now?” 

I'm leaning on him as we walk down the very aisle that I walked down with my father on my wedding day to Nate’s dad. I'm holding onto Nate this time. He leaves me to help bring the casket in. He’s so tall. He’s the largest of all the grandson’s. My Dad was a big man too. I feel a touch of pride knowing Nate is so big. Throughout the service, Nate was on my left side, Elissa on my right. I kept sobbing. I could NOT stop the tears. A couple of times I looked up at Nate and he patted my head. He was being my rock, my shoulder. Not my oldest child, not my daughter, my baby, my baby was there for me.

My boy grew that day. He was called upon and he didn't cower. He knew I needed him and he did what had to be done.

They bring Nate back to the waiting room. He is talking to the technician and they are joking about how tall Nate is. Because Nate is 6’4”, they had to do his PET scan with his feet sticking out, and then later with just his feet sticking in. I’m seated, listening to all of this. While Nate is asking questions about when the results will be to his doctor, I notice the technician’s shoes. They seem to be curled at the end? I stifle a giggle, grab my phone, mumble something to Nate about texting his dad but I secretly snap a photo of the guy’s shoes. In the car later I show them to Nate. He looks at me and says, “You notice people’s shoes at the weirdest times.” 

Purple Flowers June 10, 2013

There are moments in your life, defining moments that you remember where you were, what you were wearing, what you ate; odd details that have nothing really to do with the impact of the moment. 

You remember that on your way there, a car, a blue car, cut you off. You remember the flowers blooming outside the doctor’s office, unusual purple flowers that look a bit too much like onions. You think, “What an odd choice for an ornamental flower?” They aren’t very attractive. You keep thinking about those strange flowers as you sit in the doctor’s office, waiting. You have done your research. You only researched benign tumors. You have a few theories but you wait for the experts to explain it all. You listen to the too young doctor in the too large suit rambling. You can tell he is nervous. That makes you nervous, so you think about the odd purple flowers.

Stage IV Sarcoma. He’s only 20. Yes, the tumor on the CT Scan last week seemed very large but he only started having pain a month or so ago. Stage IV, how can this be? The too young doctor in the too large suit starts talking about treatment plans, U of M, and the dimensions of the tumor. You look at him, your boy. You can tell he has NO clue what a Stage IV diagnosis means. You look at your ex-husband; it hasn’t registered with him yet either. You keep swallowing, trying hard not to make a scene. You want to scream, cry, to vomit but you keep it together because you KNOW what Stage IV means. You see that the too young doctor in the too large suit realizes that you know. He starts looking directly at you, speaking directly to you. You don’t know what to ask? How long has it been there? Well, that is hard to say. What caused this? We really don’t know. You look at your boy again. You remember the first time you saw him. Your skin starts to crawl. You don’t know how much longer you can stay composed. The buzzing in your ears grows louder. The walls start moving. The too young doctor in the too large suit is watching you. He leaves the room to get you some information he’s printed off. You try to think about those damn purple flowers.

And there you are, making plans at the front desk for an appointment at U of M Sarcoma Clinic. He needs more blood work. He needs all his records. You agree to take him for his blood work but you say you have to do something first, that you will pick him up in a few minutes. Driving across town, you keep thinking of the purple flowers because if you think of Stage IV Sarcoma you are not going to be able to move. People are waiting for the news. You call your sister. You have to say the words out loud. You start to unravel. You manage to post the information and a prayer request before your hands start shaking uncontrollably. You are undone. You let it happen. It pours out of you. You try to breathe. You know you have to compose yourself. He needs you to be strong. Dear God, how can I be strong? My baby boy has Stage IV Sarcoma. He’s only 20. 

Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful Boy May 23, 2013

“Don’t freak mom.” Those words do more to send a mother’s blood pressure to the roof than any other. “I finally went to a doctor about that pain in my side.”

Nate had told me about his side just a few weeks earlier. It hurt enough to keep him up at night and compared to his left side, it did seem swollen. Having a nephew who had Lymphoma at 16, I had insisted he get that looked at.

“They did a Chest X-Ray and there is a mass of unknown origin and I have a CT Biopsy scheduled for Monday, can you take me?”

A mass of unknown origin, a MASS, how can he have a mass? Maybe it’s a pulled muscle? Maybe it’s an inflamed fatty tissue? A CT Biopsy? He’s only 20 years old.

Monday morning we arrive an evidently we are late. He said it was an 11:00 am appointment. They girl explains that he was supposed to be there at 9:00 am for prep. We assume we are going to have to reschedule, but they don’t. She says, ‘no problem.’ No problem, being late for a scheduled appointment at a doctor’s office? She calls to the back and says a number that must reference Nate. She looks up and says, “We will get you right in.” Right in? What is happening here? This is NOT how the medical world works. You are late, you have to wait. We barely sit down and they call us back. The waiting room is packed. I am somewhat confused at the star treatment. I note to myself, Nate is getting the red carpet treatment here, why?

They make him put on a hospital gown. He’s so tall his feet hang off the end of the bed. I don’t want to scare him but I remember how painful my lung biopsy was so I tell him to be sure to tell the technician that it hurts, not to suck it up like I did if he feels any pain. They come and take some blood work. There is some blood on the bed. His blood. I try not to think about my son in a hospital gown, with an IV, lying in a hospital bed, about to get a CT Needle Biopsy on a mass of unknown origin. I joke about his feet hanging off the bed. He isn’t even scared. At 20 years old he’s 10 foot tall and bullet proof. They take him back and direct me to another waiting room.

I have a book in my hand, one of my favorite authors. I realize that I have read the same paragraph three times and still have no idea what it says. Reading is not going to work. I stare at the huge fish tank that is directly across from where I am sitting. A small child comes up with her father and they look at the fish.

In the movies, when parents deal with terminal illnesses in their children, it’s all so very dramatic. They scream, “No, take me instead!” I start making my pact with God. I can’t scream. It’s a quiet breath that is barely a whisper that says, Oh God, please, just take me instead.”

My sister told me to write down Nate’s entire medical history to take to U of M. I frantically get out my blue notebook and just start randomly noting doctor’s visits, ER visits, asthma, tubes in his ears and my pregnancy for him.

Nate wasn’t planned. Elissa was only six months old when I got pregnant for Nate. I knew his dad wasn’t going to be happy about having another one so soon. I’m not really sure I am ready for another one either. Its Christmas time and I have morning sickness but I haven’t told anyone yet that I’m pregnant.  Good grief, I’m still nursing Elissa. At my parent’s house, I feel sick, crampy. I start to spot. I know what’s happening. I have been through this before. I fight the urge to push and keep saying, no, God no, please not again, please. I keep begging and finally say the words, I want him. I immediately calm down and I hear a still small voice say, “Even if he’s special?” I say yes, out loud and repeat, “Yes, I want him, even if he’s special.” The pains stop. I tell no one about this. It’s February before I even tell his dad that I am pregnant. I spend the entire pregnancy wondering what ‘even if he’s special’ means.

Nate was a planned C-section. I argued with the doctors that they had the date wrong; they were going to take him too early. I knew when he was conceived.  They told me they would only change the date if I had an amino. No way was I having one of those. So August 27^th, early in the morning, Nathan Thomas Bracher was born weighing 9lbs, 3oz and 23 inches. He was covered in vernix. He looked like he had been dipped in pancake batter! I kissed his face anyway. He had the blackest eyes I had ever seen. When he shifted them to look at you, he looked like a shark in a tank. We call him Shark Boy. He had a problem with his bilirubin levels so he was hooked up to a wallaby. He looked like a glowbug! I asked for him to be removed from my room at night because I couldn’t sleep next to this nuclear glowing baby! We call him Pumpkin Boy for his lovely orange/yellow glow.

When Nate was just over a year old, he got pneumonia, bad. He was on antibiotics for a double ear infection but I knew something was wrong. He was shaking and it appeared like he was talking in his sleep. His temperature was 106. I called the doctor’s office and told them I am coming over. When we got there I said his name and said, “Which room?” I wasn’t going to sit in a waiting room, not with a 106 temp. The doctor came right in. He started saying something to me about Nate’s temp, assuming that I was an exaggerating mom. Before he can finish the girl taking Nate’s temp says, “Doctor.” This was before ibuprofen was over the counter. The acetaminophen I had been giving him brought him no relief. One dose of ibuprofen and he wasn’t shaking anymore and peacefully sleeping, even snoring like a man. After the blood test it is confirmed pneumonia. I was given the option to put him in the hospital or treat him at home. We go home.

When he is three we spent a fourth of July in the ER. By spent I mean we are in there at 3:00pm and are not seen until 11:00pm. This was the summer Nate talked me into letting his grandpa shave his head. While we are outside and I am petting his head when I find a bump. I look, oh God there is a ladybug sized brown bug, biting him. I try to flick it off. It won't budge. I try to pull it. It won't budge. So off to ER. Nate was such a trouper that day. We only had a handful of toys but he was great. This is the time period he is called Nater Tornader. He’s usually a bit of an energetic kid. Finally when it’s nearing 11:00pm I go to the girl at the desk and say, “I know you have been busy. I know that drunks who fall off their boats and cut their feet on the boat propeller do take precedence over a child with a bug in his head but really? We have been here since three. It will probably take a minute for SOMEONE to take some tweezers and snatch out this bug.” It works, we are in a room! It does only take a minute to remove the STILL very much alive bug that has been sucking on my child’s head all 4^th of July night. They assure me it’s not a tick but a chigger so I'm told NOT to worry about Lyme disease but they give us some antibiotics just in case. We call him Chigger Boy for years.

There are many MANY doctors’ visits for ear infections that eventually lead to getting tubes in his ears. It took five nurses and myself to hold him still to get the IV in him before the surgery. I was holding his head, trying to keep him calm. I tell him it will only hurt for a little bit. He screams, “You lied. YOU LIED! It hurts, it STILL hurts.” One of the nurses starts to giggle. It took an abnormally long time for us to be able to see him after recovery. We finally question what is taking so long when out pops a gurney, Nate sitting up and five nurses around him laughing. One apologizes and says, “Oh, I'm sorry, we had to keep him a bit longer because he was TOO much fun.“

He is hospitalized at four with dehydration from a Roti Virus infection. This time he was way too weak to fight the insertion of the IV.

Shortly after he is diagnosed with asthma and has to start taking medications to treat his allergies. Try having a three year old on liquid albuterol!!! Bouncing off the walls does not BEGIN to describe the effects of that drug. He’s Nater Tornader again.

With each illness or medical event in his life, I wonder about the still small voice asking me, “even if he’s special?”

He breaks out in Chickenpox the night after our church Christmas program. I had to call everyone he possibly exposed to Chickenpox, including our pastor. The pastor had played the part of Jesus and was sitting among the children during the play. Unrehearsed, during the closing song, he picked up Nathan. Nathan curled up against his chest and made the whole congregation melt. Who wouldn't want to curl up in Jesus’ arms when you have a 104 temp?

Once we moved out into the country, the rest of his childhood was uneventful, health wise. He stopped taking his medications for allergies and asthma in junior high and frankly was rarely sick. Sitting there waiting for him to come back to his room after his biopsy, I really couldn't remember his last doctors visit.

The nurse comes out and says, “Can you follow me? The radiologist would like to speak with you a moment.”

The radiologist starts explaining that they were having difficulty taking a sample. He shows me a screen that displays the image of my son’s body and his mass of unknown origin. The radiologist points to these little broken white marks. “Those are his ribs. They are being destroyed from the pressure of the mass. That is what is causing him the pain.” He shows me that the mass of unknown origin is growing into the muscles on his right side; the other half of it is ‘infiltrating’ his rib cage. He repeats this same information several times. I look at him. I see in his eyes he wants to tell me more. I tell him about the nephew with lymphoma and ask him what he thinks this mass is. He quietly says, I don't think it’s lymphoma but let’s wait until the labs come back on the tissue samples before making any decisions.”

It’s echoing in the back of my head but I can still hear it.

 “Even if he’s special?”

Yes, I say again, EVEN if he’s special.

Before you cross the street,

Take my hand,

Life is just what happens to you,

While you're busy making other plans

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XO2v7qZClbw

Friday night…home, alone...beer & pizza. I have a few offers to go out with friends but I’m content to be in, sort of. I just broke up with a guy I had been seeing for several months. Yeah, of course he was a dick but I see where I was to blame in how it ended. Not that it ended, but how it ended. I’m disappointed and a little sad but not crushed.

I am still on my journey, not to find the perfect man but to find me. I didn’t think I was looking for me before but I am. I can tell because as each one of my dating experiences crashed and burned, I learned something, not til now but better late than never.

The Trucker – well, he was my awaking. He brought up feelings I didn’t know I had left in me. He made me feel sexy, desired, wonderful and alive. He didn’t have any follow through but I will always be grateful to him for waking ‘her’ up. We are still friends but I have no expectations of anything more with him. He flirts, we play but that’s all the further it will ever go.That’s ok. He sent me flowers a few weeks ago. Yunno, a girl really should get flowers, for no reason other than she oughta get some flowers.

The Farmer – in some ways he’s the one that got away. He was my first, on my own, dating. No one fixed me up with him. I found him ALL on my own, but it was MUCH too soon. I see that now. I had gone through 10 years of being ignored. I really didn’t know how to react to his attention. I was very awkward and stilted. He was adorable, a Peter Pan but adorable. I will forever be grateful to him for breaking my 10 year dry spell and getting me out there again. Kinda wish I could run into him again now. I think I’d be more like the kind of women he’d like to have. But again, why pine, he’s a Peter Pan. Married twice, no relationship past six years, he’s not the one, but he was a lot of fun.

The Machinist – Oh his eyes…he had a way of staring at me SO intently, I melted, JUST melted. I vowed that because I was kinda stilted with the Farmer, I’d be more expressive with this one. Yeah, it crashed and burned, well, he had some gals on the side so this one wasn’t entirely my fault. I don’t share my toys but again, OH it was FUN while it lasted.

The Milkman – this one appeared to have potential. While he was NOT my type at all, I decided to give it a go. I kept hearing, “He’s SUCH a nice guy.” I thought, ok, I’ll try this. Yeah, he wasn’t really a nice guy. He was bossy, controlling, WHINEY and selfish. What appeared to be kindness and giving was really a way to control. I didn’t have bells & whistles when I was with him but I was so comfortable around him in the beginning. This one lasted 10 months but ended in flames. The flames WERE my fault. I should have addressed my concerns instead of letting them all build up. I didn’t, and in a moment of stress, I exploded. He is rather unforgiving so he never accepted my apology so it’s over. I did just start a new job and my son is going through chemo so I didn’t ‘take’ things in my usual stride. That’s not the point. I SHOULD have spoken up sooner. I shouldn’t have let them build. Could this have been saved? We’ll never know but I can’t say that the whole 10 months was a waste of time.

So the teacher in me wants to recap. I am alive. I have been awaken from a long slumber. I have learned to be more expressive and not so reserved. I know how to respond like a real girlfriend. (that sounded dirty, oh, well, lol) I will be more careful, not so trusting right off the bat but I will speak up when I don’t like something. I would like to be with someone. I miss having someone waiting to hear about my day. I miss that. I miss phone calls & texts throughout the day. Just knowing someone was thinking of me felt wonderful.  I do want flowers, but mostly on days that there is no reason to have flowers other than he’s thinking about me. Oh, and I want bells & whistles. I think there’s something to that after all. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HiBNjWrd1Nk

Blow me one last kiss.....

Today will be the only time I will ‘honor‘ this day by acknowledging. It’s not a day to celebrate, just to give a nod to, and that is all I am going to do. My divorce was final a year ago today. I was very stressed, not so much at the ending of a 25+ union, 22 of those years married, but because I acted as my own lawyer, filing all the court papers. I was more stressed I was doing that wrong, then the new direction I was heading in. I remember the day well; no one else was in the courtroom. The judge asked me to speak up. He asked me questions about the property division and asked me if I was sure. He asked me a few more questions. Then it was done. When I went to the clerk and filed the final papers, she said, “Congratulations, you’re a lawyer!” I don’t remember what I did with the rest of my day. I am pretty sure I took the day off from work. I truly don’t remember. 

The next few weeks were spent packing, hauling and moving in. The first week the house was quiet. I played the radio a lot to have noise in the house. Then as work stress became worse, I embraced the beautiful silence at the end of my work day. Took me a while to realize I didn't have to come right home after work. I didn't have to have dinner on the table by 6:00 and frankly, I could have a bowl of cereal for dinner if I wanted to. Some nights I did. 

2012 held such promise or so I thought. The year started with one low blow after another until finally the sucker punch of losing my dad. Still the bad kept coming with the abuse from management becoming so unbearable, I quit my job. I felt I had no other choice. Just when I found a job for the summer, my brother died. The loss was hard to process with how complicated his ending was, all the drama. 

Still I pressed on. What else is there to do? So many changes in my life in just one year, nothing turned out as I expected it to. Had my heart cracked a few times but hey, at least it wasn't completely broken, right? It’s hard to explain but even though I have suffered so much loss in the past year, I am living alone and trying to support myself on half the pay I had this time last year, it’s still all good. Not trying to show a stiff upper lip, I truly can say, I’m ok. I feel SO at peace with the changes that needed to happen and I’m coming to terms with the changes that were forced upon me. I am worried about some things but not losing sleep over them. I am hopeful, no cliche attached, just hopeful. I am at peace. I am taking one day at a time and rolling with the punches. I've adjusted my bucket list. Some things that were important last year, didn't make the list this year. Some things got crossed off as done. New things got penciled in. 

I heard a Pink song on the radio yesterday. (yeah, someone at work changed the channel, lol) IF I had heard this song, this time last year, it would have been my “divorce song.” The first divorce I used to blare Phil Collins, “I Don’t Care Anymore.”( Helped me through my cranky days, lol) She sings naughty words, lol. I apologize in advance BUT I have to add that when you break up with someone you want to shout and swear some days. Today I don’t need to shout or swear. I’m just gonna chill, in my very quiet little house. 

…I will do what I please, anything that I want 

I will breathe, I won't breathe, I won't worry at all 

You will pay for your sins, you'll be sorry my dear 

All the lies, all the wise, will be crystal clear …

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=KniXq_d-o4E